Twenty Minutes, Twenty Years
by yuki kahara
Summary: In the heat of an argument, Naruto says something he can never take back. Something that may have helped Sasuke make his decision. *only the plot and sorrow is mine*


"At least I didn't get my family killed."

You knew you shouldn't have said it. Even before the words left your mouth, you knew. Knew it was cold, cruel, unfair, and untrue, but you just didn't care. You were angry, hurt, and you just wanted him to suffer for everything he's ever said or done to you, for everything everyone's ever said or done to you.

You knew, even before you said it, that you'd regret it. By the end of the day, perhaps, or tomorrow. Next week, next month. When, per say, you don't know, it changes all the time, but someday, you knew you'd regret saying that one sentence to him.

Your back is to him, arms crossed, quietly fuming from the fight, and for the life of you, you can't remember, even so soon after, whether you just now turned from him or if you were never facing him to begin with. Nor can you recall WHY, exactly, you won't face him.

You know how he'll react, because you know him so damn well, like he knows you. You know he'll be beyond pissed. He'll sneer and glare at your back, but he won't physically strike you, not that he ever would. You know, however, that when he's as mad as he is, he likes to "hit below the belt". He'll use his wit and strike you verbally, with a comeback just as cruel, never more so, than yours, because HE plays fair.

You know he'll throw the shovel he's been using to his feet, say his comeback, shove his hands in his pockets, and storm off, leaving you to finish the stupid, D-rank gardening mission, which isn't much, all by yourself, because Sensei left hours ago and your crush is practicing medical ninjutsu.

You know that that's what's going to happen, because you pride yourself at knowing him so well.

So you're startled, confused, and curious when the little garden is so quiet after your harsh remark.

You want to turn towards him, to see why he's so silent, but you can't, you won't, because you don't want him to know you're curious and confused.

There isn't a sound to be heard for what feels like hours, but you know could only be a few minutes.

Then softly, oh so very gently, you hear metal pushing into dry, hard ground, and THAT'S when you turn around, even more surprised.

He's back to work, tilling the garden for the elderly lady that hired the both of you, all tension in the air from the fight gone. His head is bowed, his dark, slightly long hair shielding his face from you.

You know that he knows that you're staring, but he isn't saying anything, nor will he even glance your way. He finishes the part of the garden you both agreed he'd do three hours earlier. Then, he carefully puts the shovel back, picks up his bag, still refusing to show his face to you or speak, and leaves.

It's only after he's out of your sight for a few minutes that you force yourself to continue working. For the remaining five minutes or so it takes you to complete the task, all you can think about is your statement and his reaction to it.

It's when you're done and putting your own shovel away that it suddenly dawn on you what you've done.

"At least I didn't get my family killed."

He was only eight years old at the time, an innocent child. He was scared, confused, hurt. You just openly accused him, blamed him, for the two-hundred or so murders he was force to witness. And if that wasn't bad enough, he didn't fight back. He didn't defend himself, he didn't disagree with that dark accusation. It hits you like a hundred tons of brick and steel that he's blamed himself for his loved ones deaths all these years, and you've just said it, told him, that it truly was his fault out loud.

Just as you predicted, but much, much to early, you regret saying that one sentence. You've not only crossed , but jumped, skipped, and ran over that fine, delicate line. You went way too far with that those eight, cursed words.

It's too late. It's been too late the moment you started that final, awful statement, not twenty minutes ago. Perhaps it was always too late. No amount of "I'm sorry"s will make a difference; no amount of false persuasion will make him believe it to be wrong.

It's twenty minutes too late to take it back., he's twenty minutes too far gone to be saved, and you have to live with that, not for twenty minutes, but for twenty years.


End file.
